You strike back

Despite your overwhelming sense of guilt, you had deceived your mom and skipped school that day. It was painfully clear that things were progressing horribly around the town and you needed act before more blood was spilt. Following the name and address Mandy provided, you came to fairly large property at the edge of town. It was gorgeous to look at, but there was something about absurd wealth on display that annoyed you. The cultists had grown powerful on blood and madness. It couldn’t continue.

You spent the better of the day scoping the place out, watching as vans and movers came in and out at all hours. Something big was going on at the estate, and very quickly you realised you had a way in.

There was something foreboding about the place, but on some level you had expected that. These people were all tainted by dark magic and evil rituals, the sinister feeling clung to them like a bad smell.

You watched the people coming and going until an opportunity presented itself. One of the moving trucks was near the front gate, the driver speaking to an intercom. It was luck, or perhaps divine intervention that allowed you to get close and open the back. You were able to tuck yourself in behind an old piano, waiting on bated breath as the vehicle carried you inside the property. Eventually the vehicle stopped, the doors opened and two men spoke to each other.

“Whatdya think?”

“There’s a stack of chairs,” the other voice grunted. “We’ll take them first. East wing.”

Light came into the truck, but luckily you were obscured while the workers heaved out their first load of cargo. You counted to ten, then moved to the back, peered out the open doors, and made a run for it.

The movers were headed east, so you went west. Luckily no one spotted, no one called after you. In fact the entire half of the estate seemed empty. Distantly you could hear voices, but that was just the general cacophony of people setting up. Eventually you came to a side door, looked around, then went inside through the laundry and into the house proper.

The outside was gorgeous, but the interior was on another level. You had thought Mayor Chapman’s house was snazzy, but Albert Johnson seemed to have transformed his new home into some kind of 18th century Victorian manor. It was bizarre and surreal, but you supposed people involved with the Cult would have to be a little eccentric.

A couple of women, housekeepers you assumed, walked by deep in conversation. You watched them carefully from your position in the laundry and then pushed out into the hallway. You made to reach for the nearest doorknob when a voice cut through the air.

“HEY.”

You froze, your whole body tense. You dare not even breathe, waiting for the worst. But then another voice spoke.

“Si, Mr Johnson?”

Slowly you turned, and saw at the end of the hallway that the voice-belonging to an older man, was not talking to you (or indeed even looking at you,) but at the housekeepers.

“Tell those damned movers to keep to the east wing. I’ll be in my upstairs study for the rest of the day and I swear to god if anyone disturbs me there’ll be hell to pay!”

The women mumbled agreements and quickly walked off, while Albert Johnson turned and made for nearby stairs, every step thunderous and annoyed as he made his ascent. You saw the opportunity and snuck in that same direction, looking around cautiously as you followed.

Every step of the stairs was agonising as you tried to keep quiet, tip toeing up and clutching the bannister carefully. You let out a little of breath of relief when you made it upstairs without being sprung and then looked about. There was the whack of a door slamming shut just ahead of you. The study.

For a moment you just stared down at the ring. You weren’t entirely sure how it might work in this situation, but it was one of the few weapons you had at your disposal. You took in a sharp breath, then went into the study.

Albert Johnson sat at his desk, writing something in a note book with a look of utter frustration on his face. That expression shifted into one of pure outrage when he lifted his gaze and saw you entering his study area.

“What the fuck is this?” He demanded. “Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my office?”

You closed the door and approached him. “We need to talk,” you said, “ about the Chapman and about the cult.”

He seemed surprised, but that melted into controlled anger. “I’ll have the cops here in two minutes. Maybe they can explain it while they work you over in jail.”

When he reached for his phone you reacted on instinct. You closed the distance between the two of you and threw a punch at the guy’s bald head, sending him reeling. “ Can’t let you do that, not when there are lives at risk…”

There was a flash of anger as he rubbed at his jaw and took a few steps back, but then he seemed to regain a level of focus. His eyes narrowed on you, looking you up and down in a new light. “You want to know about my Order? Well, fuck you kid,” he clenched the phone tightly in his hand while raising the other in defence, “I swore an oath to a higher power. I’m not about to break that because some little thug got overzealous.”

He began to tap out the number when you leapt, the two of you wrestling over his desk as you flung the phone from his hands. He was bigger than you, but older and outof shape. When he realised he couldn’t get away, he made to shout. “HEL-” you clamped your hand over his mouth, **** to keep him from calling out.

Your mind raced, your heart pounded. What could you do to get him to talk? Mandy’s came back to you.

By any means necessary…